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Sometimes, Lord, it’s like water spiriting through blue into cirrus clouds. In the end, there’s no end in sight. Just as well: something wants to build a nest in our skulls. Cicadas never stop sawing in the trees. The trees never fall down. With this black robe, I espouse to these people you who take no bride. With this mirror, this cross, knife, I lure a native with shiny things. Bloody spouse in spirit, her eyes dim over scripture. Wholly without names, the black marks swarm like bees she is deaf to. What is it that wants to carry away this head on a stick? This head looking down the path it came from? A billion cornflowers line the way, flower-sky where once upon a time the invisible hand slapped and slapped. What you can’t see starts the wild grasses trembling. saint in the wilderness [ 21 ] ...

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